Scarlet Requiem
by Laylah
Summary: PreAC, based on game and movie both.Vincent discovers a malevolent power stirring in a holy place.Will he choose the role of the observer,or the reluctant hero,in order to save his dear friend,and his own sanity.Vincent&Tifa.Please R&R.


**A/N: I've been wanting to write a Vincent/Tifa fic interwoven with Advent Children storyline somehow since I've finished playing FF-7. I don't know if it came out any good, you be the judge. Angst will be the prominent element in this fic, but will not necessarily dominate every chapter. Dreamscapes and much madness abound, some graphic torture and excessive morbidity later on, so rated M to be on the safe side. Romance-wise; in Vincent and Tifa's case, I say less is more for the moment. So, here it is, without further ado…**

**Disclaimer:Square Enix owns us all...**

**SCARLET REQUIEM**

"This bower was my temple, the fastened door my shrine, and here I would lie outstretched on the mossy ground, thinking strange thoughts and dreaming strange dreams."

-H.P. Love craft "The Tomb"

_1 year after Sephiroth's defeat at the Northern Crater…_

…………

Darkness was the only blessing to his damned, garnet-red vision. Endless darkness would forever enfold him in its embrace, and he would only have his sins for comfort and bothersome memories to remind him what he was; a freak of nature blessed with an unnatural longevity.

Slumber was a restless anticipation that never came, yet still he was immersed into a limbo of illusions that would otherwise only torment the asleep, breathing of sorrow that incessantly plagued him and caressed him nightly.

His awakening came as a hideous revelation of devoured time and banished light which once more surrounded him. The blackness was a welcome relief to his eyes, and the coldness of the stone beneath his cheek, though unfamiliar, was not unpleasant. What truly troubled him was the dark, overwhelming perfume of mould and musty fabric, the putrid aroma of grave dust and rotting flesh that Vincent inhaled. His fingers touched the low ceiling of the coffin, expecting the cold, lacquered wood of the box…instead found hard, icy cold stone on all sides… a suffocating sanctuary for the madness of the stillness and solitude in which he was enslaved, this time against his will.

His hands roamed the opaque darkness, feeling out the claustrophobic dimensions of the coffin, and promptly pushed at the stone slab that confined him into the casket, muscles straining with the exertion. He pressed himself to the lid, pushing with all his strength, a drop of cool sweat trickling down his sable brow. The stone lid refused to budge. Then, his frantic movements stirred something velvety long and stiff next to him. A body.

He felt the wispy caress of silken entangled hair, the brush of cold lips touching him lightly. Judging by the putrescent smell, the body was in the first stages of decomposition.

Too jaded to be revolted, Vincent let the corpse be and scratched at the coffin's fastened lid, beating against it with his fists, growing more desperate each passing moment to escape this sepulchral prison… To escape from the darkness he thought he always longed for.

The icy, slender cadaver brushed against him once more as he shifted and turned to his side, the stiff, feminine limbs that lay next to him like a paramour befrosted in death. No, was not solitude his only beloved? Who had shut him in here, with this corpse? And for what reason other than to hasten his madness…?

His ears pricked up, on the alert, when he heard the quiet footsteps approaching. Vincent, vigilant as ever, concentrated his acute hearing on the unhurried, precise movements outside the sepulcher; the quiet creak of leather, the hushed breathing, the metallic sound of a sword blade… And finally the stone slab being pushed to one side, letting the dulled light in, fresh air seeped in, mingling with more dust. And thus freed, Vincent crawled out of the sepulchre, coughing softly, squinting his sensitive eyes against the soft torchlight that blazed on the walls and the amber-yellow tomb lamps in alcoves.

His silent benefactor stepped into this light, blotting it out entirely with his presence. Pale grey-green eyes glittered, like polished, sharp-edged crystals flickering with an eerie, inner glow, as they unblinkingly observed their captive.

The dust of the grave hung in the jet black hair that gleamed like moon-swathed night in the light of tomb lamps, the black leather that garbed the lean, but powerful body, and the long, high collared cape of dark wine-crimson, stained with too much blood and too many sins. The bone-pale skin was the ghostly shade of white, smooth, deathlike…Not unlike the body that lay rotting silent and beautiful in the coffin still. Shadows shifted in cobwebbed corners to the evanescent lure of the wavering candlelight, accentuating the prominent cheekbones for a moment or so, then altogether shading the clandestine face.

Vincent, having recovered his senses, trained his sharp, piercing crimson gaze on his captor that stood still over him. His grey-tinged, cracked lips, stuck firmly together from dank coldness and dehydration, parted slowly, curling in pure, unbridled contempt.

"Sephiroth…"

The faint flicker of amusement transformed into one of malicious satisfaction. Sparse, wavering light roused monstrous silhouettes to writhe across the stained walls as Vincent perceived out of the corner of his eye, but it was Sephiroth's own shadow that was the most hideous; a black reflection of darkest madness and corruption of the soul made flesh in deceivingly beauteous form to enthrall the eye while it poisoned the unwary mind.

With a lightning-fast motion, Vincent rose to confront his foe, only to be halted by the razor-tip of the Masamune pressed against his throat. The long length of the blade glimmered with a soft, pulsing light, like the waist-long strands of lustrous silver hair that subtly caressed the strong-featured face with an amorphous life of their own.

"Did you enjoy your new coffin? I had it made especially for you." A soft, dark sneer.

"It was a lamentable effort to say the least." Vincent replied crisply in a deep, low voice.

"How you sadden me so with your ungrateful words!" Sephiroth feigned disappointment. "At least I was gracious enough to provide you with company to elevate that pesky feeling of loneliness." His lips twisted into a slow, dark smile, glancing past him at the sarcophagus.

Vincent's heart pounded with a worried cadence at the foreboding words, then seemed to stop beating altogether when he jerked his head toward the open coffin, peering at the body that lay within. He felt his throat tighten, his fists clenching at his sides. Mutely he stared on, frozen and unable to breathe, unable to feel anything but pure, unbridled anguish.

"Oh, but you don't seem all that delighted to see your old friend…What a shame, after all I went through to arrange this reunion between you two…" Sephiroth said calmly.

Vincent ignored the chillingly scorn, and bent over Tifa's lifeless body. Ebony hair was arranged about her heart-shaped, ashen face like a black mourning veil, obscuring one side, and exposing the splotches of ugly discoloration that marred the once flawless skin with death's merciless touch. The front of her top was saturated with dark, dark blood. One pale hand rested upon the still chest, sticky, sanguine-stained fingers rigid with rigor mortis. Her lusterless, unseeing eyes were wide open, staring at Vincent glassily, silently, accusingly…

No amount of materia would be able to resurrect her beyond this point…She was far too gone, irretrievably so.

Vincent slowly straightened, turning back to his enemy. His eyes shone with a demonic fury that struck both of them hotly, blazing an intense, vivid red hue…Like fire, like blood. And they focused solely, fiercely on the shadow-embraced silhouette that watched him with a bored, indifferent expression.

There was no time for words, no room for reason, and Vincent, who always prided himself on his ability to maintain perfect self-control in all situations, felt his willpower slipping, succumbing to the frenzy of sorrow and rage that flowed unchecked through the cracks in his soul. A blur of movement, and the clawed left hand lunged at Sephiroth, tearing deep lines across his pallid cheek, instantly drawing blood.

The pain was fleeting, but still the handsome face froze in outrage and disbelief. Though the Masamune did not move one inch, still perfectly leveled at his throat. For an instant, that compelling, anger-twisted face transformed, and Vincent glimpsed the terrible resemblance to the woman who had birthed Sephiroth…He felt his soul unravel at the vision. A trick, he reminded himself…A mirage for the lovelorn, restless heart.

"Lucrecia…is that all you can think of, at a time like this?" Sephiroth mused disdainfully. Vincent's stubborn silence seemed to incite him further.

"Tell me, do I resemble your precious Lucrecia? Do I look like her at all?" Sephiroth smiled viciously, victorious in having pinpointed the ultimate weakness in his opponent.

Vincent wanted to tear his eyes out to banish Sephiroth's image forever from his troubled, feverish mind. How he loathed him so and yet how he envied him with a black, covetous passion. There was no denying it, Sephiroth was a part of Lucrecia as much as Jenova, whether he liked it or not. Powerless he was as he gazed at him, taking in the bleeding face etched with the flawless, unearthly splendour of the alien matter that sought to destroy the planet, and the exquisite, human beauty of his mother fused together in a majestic harmony.

Vincent could not bear to gaze at him any longer without flinching. Twitching eyelids forced the tears away, sealing them deep inside.

All he saw then was the mark of Jenova, like a dark, impure venom contaminating him from within since the moment he drew his first breath. Wasn't it Hojo's fault that Sephiroth turned out the way he was? In reality, Sephiroth was not the one to blame. As much as Vincent loathed to admit, he was innocent in a way, and there too still, was the mark of the beauteous, beloved Lucrecia, however diluted and ethereal, it was still there, staring right back at him. Vincent dropped his gaze, lest his grief tore him apart beyond endurance.

"Look at me!" Sephiroth demanded harshly, suddenly grabbing his shoulders and forcing him to look. The opaque red gaze settled on the snarling mouth, the glistening blood streaking down his face still, bringing out the glowing aquamarine shade of his eyes, by contrast, his skin was white...corpselike…dead. Sephiroth was dead.

"You're nothing like her." Vincent said bitterly.

"You are lying. I can tell…"

"Think what you will. " Vincent muttered, the inside of his mouth was growing strangely numb, and he gripped his temple, suddenly struck by a wave of dull pain.

"How predictable." Sephiroth looked disappointed, his eyes narrowing. "Shall I tell you how Tifa screamed for mercy before choking in her own blood?"

"She would never!" Vincent whispered hoarsely, leaning back unsteadily and welcoming the wall's support. Groggily, he pushed himself off, his hand reaching for his gun. The bastard was doing something to him, draining his resilience and stealing his spiritual power.

"Perhaps. But you, Vincent, surely will." Sephiroth smiled venomously, and drove the Masamune through Vincent's chest in one swift motion that caught the other man unawares. Blood trickled down the corner of his mouth, eyes frozen in stunned disbelief. Pain exploded in his brain, his insides burned with it, a fitting end for one riddled with so many sins. Pain was not a redemption, it was a retribution… His mind clouded with its scarlet haze, desperately holding onto life. Vincent thought he heard Sephiroth calling his name as he plunged the sword deeper…or was it someone else…..

………..

"_Vincent…"_

_Someone was indeed calling to him, but she was far away, her sweet, spectral voice could not reach him, her eyes could not shed their tears…frozen forever within a crystalline prison that was nothing but life entombed in death._

"Vincent, wake up!"

Garnet-dark eyes opened, awakened at last, to a vision of beauty. Beauty it was, no longer a dream, bringing relief.

Tifa was leaning over him, her hand clamped around his muscled upper arm, gently shaking him awake. She looked worried, slightly confused even.

The nightmare of Sephiroth, and of Tifa's death…The dream of Lucrecia, her breath caressing him like a forbidden blessing…It all came back to him. Shadow of tears still taunting him…Tears that long had dried up and frozen inside, like his heart. It had only been a nightmare. Sephiroth was dead, and would remain that way. The planet was safe. It was all that mattered.

The wraithly light of the moon leaked through the skeletal branches of the towering trees surrounding the misty, glacial lake of the Forgotten City, illuminating the side of Tifa's solemn face with a fey-like, mysterious allure.

"I was…dreaming." Vincent said gloomily, straightening into a sitting position, leaning his head against the soaring, bleached tree beneath which he had fallen asleep earlier on. The night was chilly, its whispering wind blowing through the deadened, snow-laced foliage.

"You were having a nightmare." Tifa replied somewhat faintly.

"It wasn't a nightmare." Vincent said quietly, frowning softly.

Tifa understood his meaning. She laid her hand on his, in perfect gentleness that took his breath away. Vincent, not used to human touch for quite a while, stared morosely at the slim fingers that rested over his. Her hand was warm despite the nocturnal chill, like the rest of her.

"Don't look so glum." Tifa pulled her hand away. "I've come to get you for Marlene's birthday, remember? You haven't forgotten, have you?" Hey brows raised inquiringly.

"Marlene…Yes." Vincent said. "You came all the way just for that?"

"I guess so. If you actually decided to get a phone, I wouldn't have to."

"I believe you are right." Vincent's saturnine features relaxed a little. He smiled half-heartedly.

"The buggy's parked just outside the village, let's get going then, shall we?" Tifa smiled. A part of her wanted to stay here, bask in the tranquility, but another part of her did not want to linger any longer, lest the memory of Aeris's death haunted her again. She wondered why Vincent was so fond of the place. Distractedly, she watched the will-o'-the-wisp float languorously over the edge of the glassy lake. Like molten silver was its surface, reflecting the moon's pure radiance overhead, evoking a sense of celestial peace and stillness. Aeris…

Her trance was broken by the low, dulcet tone of Vincent's voice.

"It's time we left."

Tifa nodded, and together, they turned away from the lake and made their way down the narrow dirt path leading out of the Forgotten City of the Ancients.


End file.
